The pages found within the inmate's cell read as follows:

She slips between these iron seams,
lighting stone with hesitant gleams;
guards hum hymns in broken key,
yet every note sounds home to me.

I count their steps, I breathe their song,
and feel a pulse I've missed too long;
three paces lantern, two the gate:
a rhythm keeping doubt in state.

Rust drops from cuffs in ember flakes,
soft signals of the toll it takes;
still through the grime a promise stirs,
a whisper not yet wholly hers.

Beyond this trial, some other shore
calls to a heart grown sick of war;
its name eludes my guarded breath:
redemption veiled in living faith.

If sunrise finds my purpose true,
and spoken truth can cut a rue,
then let their Light weigh what I bring,
and judge the echo of my swing.

So hold for me these fragile lines,
they are the bridge between my crimes
and something waiting, bright and near:
a dawn I pray I'm meant to hear.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Mayan, in the year 989 AF.